l1ablemistakes
Tragic disappointment
- Feb 16, 2026
- 71
Hey! I've been writing for about 10 years now. I wanted to share part that I haven't been able to show anyone for reasons that should become pretty clear. For context, my MC Nate lost his twin sister to childhood cancer at age 16, and spent the next few years fundraising for the hospital that helped her. Through this, he ends up meeting Evan, another cancer patient, and they fall in love. Then Evan dies. It's a story about loving while accepting the inevitability of death, and savouring the moment.
trigger warning: this contains a graphic description of full suspension hanging.
If y'all like this I also wrote a bit about the hospital stay! This scene is never going to make it into the published work. I just wrote it to vent.
Ok enough rambling. Here it is:
The hardest part about killing yourself was staying convinced that you wanted to. That the small peeps of hope that reared their ugly heads every once in a while were only prolonging the inevitable.
You've already felt the deepest pain possible. How could dying be worse?
It was all ready. He was ready. His room was clean for the first time in months and he normally would've showed it off proudly. He could not bring himself to be proud. He was disgusted at himself. Nate stared at the envelopes laid out before him and wished he could feel anything in this moment other than an aching numbness so strong he thought he might collapse in on himself.
What was the point of any of it? Years—years—of dread and horror and praying to feel a single moment of peace, and here he was. Failing. Arranging letters on his desk with shaking hands and grabbing the final piece of paper. His handwriting was messy, messier than usual, since he felt drunk with shame at himself every time he picked up the pen.
PLEASE DO NOT ENTER. CALL THE AMBULANCE. I'M SO SORRY.
Georgie would find it, probably. He prayed she'd listen. It was the last token of peace he found himself able to offer, hoping that at least she wouldn't have to be the one to cut him down. She'd lost so much already. She deserved better than him. She'd be better off without him dragging her down even further.
He taped it to the door and stared at it for far too long. His muscles itched to move, but he was frozen in place, running over memories, trying to fill his mind with anything other than the spew of self loathing he hadn't been able to clear. Evan's laugh. Abby's smile. All of it tinged with his own disgusting presence. His failure. It was hopeless.
He sighed and went back in, closing the door behind him and shoving his desk against it. One more barrier, just in case somehow someone found him before his five minutes were up and he was beyond saving. Tears prickled at his eyes when he imagined Georgie slamming herself into the door, trying to get to him, but he brushed them away. No use in worrying about things he'd never see. She would understand one day.
A shot of vodka, for courage. The bottle was nearly finished by now, and it burned his empty stomach. He couldn't remember the last time he actually ate. He finished the rest of the bottle. No use leaving it behind.
His skin prickled for touch and he tried desperately to shut that urge down. The last person to touch him was Evan. As much as he ached to be held, by his parents, by Georgie, by anyone, he had to keep it that way.
He tied a knot around his ceiling fan, one he'd learned off Google and memorised sometime in the months following Abby's death.
A noose after that.
Guilt tore through him when he remembered his promise. That he'd be okay. He'd managed it for as long as humanly possible, he figured. Who could be expected to survive this? Maybe she could be proud of how long he'd clung on. That he managed to love one final time.
He climbed up onto the stool he'd taken from the living room—his desk chair had wheels, harder to kick—and stared at his feet. The matching socks he'd gotten for himself and Evan. His stomach bottomed out in fear, and he clenched his fists around nothing, nails barely biting into his palms since he'd bitten them raw. He'd never felt so rotten in his life. He'd failed everyone.
You stupid piece of shit. You're a coward.
Nate closed his eyes and brought the rope around his neck, tugging it taut until he knew the length was short enough to suspend him. His knees were shaking.
What the fuck is wrong with you? Is this not what you want?
"It is," he whispered to himself. His voice was a broken rasp from crying so much in the previous weeks. He was too exhausted now for tears. "I'm sorry. I'll see you both soon."
He wasn't sure who he was talking to. Evan and Abby couldn't hear him now.
Nate kicked the chair and jumped.
Dying was not peaceful. Dying felt like your heart spasming against your ribcage, fighting against the lack of oxygen slowly dimming your vision until your hands tore for purchase. Survival instincts.
Nate tried and failed to suck air into his lungs through the ligature tightening around his neck, as the pressure in his head grew more intense and his eyeballs felt like they were going to explode out of their sockets. His pulse rocketed in his ears. Time seemed to stretch on forever as his feet kicked and his ears rang. He knew it was starting to work when his vision darkened and he lost the energy to fight against it. The spasms stopped. His lungs went numb. It was almost peaceful.
Then the world toppled itself over.
A crash.
Pain lanced through his body, his entire being, as he slammed into the floor, muscles spasming and hands desperately tearing at the rope around his neck. His heart pounded. His head ached. His limbs seized. Breaths sawed in and out of his torn throat. Everything felt like static.
As his vision returned and his ears stopped ringing so much, he registered the pounding on the door and a fresh wave of horror washed over him. His head throbbed. His eyes stung with plaster dust.
He hated himself. He hated himself so fucking much.
Something wet and warm dripped over his forehead, weeping into his eye before he had the cognisance to wipe it away. His fingers came back red. Blood? What the fuck?
Nate shoved himself up with weak arms, still spasming as oxygen reinvigorated his muscles. He felt like a corpse being reanimated as he looked around, vision spinning like he'd gotten drunk. He supposed he had. The ceiling fan lay blurry on the floor next to him, a light snow of plaster dusting the room.
Fuck. His landlord would be so pissed.
"Nate?" A knock. "What's going on?"
He heaved.
"What is this? What are you doing?"
The breaths sawing in and out of his chest were painful, forced.
"Nate? Nate?! Please open the fucking door. I swear to god I'm going to kill you. Please just open the door. I love you, okay?!"
Georgie.
"Please listen to me. Don't do this to me. Nate, please," Her voice begged, but she sounded far away, like his head was underwater.
The pounding stopped as she spiralled into sobs.
"I'm sorry. Please open the door. I love you. You're my best friend. I need you. Help is coming. Please just open the door for me."
He wasn't sure he could get up if he tried. His arms gave out beneath him as the room continued to spin and a wave of dread and nausea and guilt rolled over him. He retched up the contents of his stomach next to a pool of blood. It burned all the way up; vodka, mostly. His eyes felt like they'd burst from the pressure.
"Nate, please. It's just me. Open the door. Please."
He stared at the hole in the ceiling as the room spun and he tried to process what had just happened.
He was supposed to be dead. He was supposed to be with his sister and Evan. His head pounded.
"I love you, okay? I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. You don't need to do this. Please open the door."
Fuck. He wasn't meant to be here for this. He wasn't meant to hear any of this. He'd scratched it blissfully from his mind. He closed his eyes in a futile attempt to make everything stop. Breathing was so painful. He wanted to stop.
Georgie's yells faded into oblivion. Time stopped.
He barely registered the sirens, the slams on the door and the crack of light that pierced through. His eyes stung. The desk budged one bang at a time until the room flooded with blurred faces and there were hands all over him. He was crying, he realised.
"Nate. Oh my god," a familiar voice sobbed, echoed. Every sound was grating against his eardrums. Too loud. Too much. "Why? Why would you do this?"
He didn't have the energy to explain. Barely had the energy to keep his eyes from fluttering shut as more faces circled above him.
"You're okay. You're okay. Please tell me you're okay."
Didn't have the energy to shake his head. Everything was spinning and looping so hard and fast he thought he'd throw up again. People kept touching. He used what little energy he had to shove them away.
"… name? …"
Words span around him. It was nauseating. He heaved without time to turn and it pooled in his mouth, coughing and spluttering.
"… turn him on his side! …"
He was shoved. The floor smacked against his face. He closed his eyes and let the vomit and tears and blood spill onto the carpet.
"… it's okay. It's okay, you're okay…"
It wasn't. It wasn't and he couldn't tell them. He clenched his eyes shut and prayed he was dreaming. His entire body was on fire and everything was spinning. His stomach convulsed again as he coughed.
"Nate, come on, please!"
"Ma'am, I need you to step back."
Even in his daze, he knew it was Georgie's sobs echoing through the room. He wanted to tell her he was sorry. He wanted to hold her and make her okay again.
Fuck. This was the worst possible scenario. His fingers tingled and in that moment he knew he wouldn't die. Fuck.
People hoisted him up by the shoulders and he was helpless to resist. He let them drag him onto what he assumed was a gurney, let them shove a mask over his face and shine obnoxiously bright lights in his eyes.
He had failed.
"Let me come! Please, let me come with—"
Doors slammed shut and the screams fizzled out. It would be peaceful if not for the wailing sirens piercing his ears.
"Can you squeeze my hand?"
He couldn't.
"Can you count to three?"
He couldn't.
"Can you tell me your name?"
The words barely formed on his tongue. "Nate, I think. My name is Nate."
trigger warning: this contains a graphic description of full suspension hanging.
If y'all like this I also wrote a bit about the hospital stay! This scene is never going to make it into the published work. I just wrote it to vent.
Ok enough rambling. Here it is:
The hardest part about killing yourself was staying convinced that you wanted to. That the small peeps of hope that reared their ugly heads every once in a while were only prolonging the inevitable.
You've already felt the deepest pain possible. How could dying be worse?
It was all ready. He was ready. His room was clean for the first time in months and he normally would've showed it off proudly. He could not bring himself to be proud. He was disgusted at himself. Nate stared at the envelopes laid out before him and wished he could feel anything in this moment other than an aching numbness so strong he thought he might collapse in on himself.
What was the point of any of it? Years—years—of dread and horror and praying to feel a single moment of peace, and here he was. Failing. Arranging letters on his desk with shaking hands and grabbing the final piece of paper. His handwriting was messy, messier than usual, since he felt drunk with shame at himself every time he picked up the pen.
PLEASE DO NOT ENTER. CALL THE AMBULANCE. I'M SO SORRY.
Georgie would find it, probably. He prayed she'd listen. It was the last token of peace he found himself able to offer, hoping that at least she wouldn't have to be the one to cut him down. She'd lost so much already. She deserved better than him. She'd be better off without him dragging her down even further.
He taped it to the door and stared at it for far too long. His muscles itched to move, but he was frozen in place, running over memories, trying to fill his mind with anything other than the spew of self loathing he hadn't been able to clear. Evan's laugh. Abby's smile. All of it tinged with his own disgusting presence. His failure. It was hopeless.
He sighed and went back in, closing the door behind him and shoving his desk against it. One more barrier, just in case somehow someone found him before his five minutes were up and he was beyond saving. Tears prickled at his eyes when he imagined Georgie slamming herself into the door, trying to get to him, but he brushed them away. No use in worrying about things he'd never see. She would understand one day.
A shot of vodka, for courage. The bottle was nearly finished by now, and it burned his empty stomach. He couldn't remember the last time he actually ate. He finished the rest of the bottle. No use leaving it behind.
His skin prickled for touch and he tried desperately to shut that urge down. The last person to touch him was Evan. As much as he ached to be held, by his parents, by Georgie, by anyone, he had to keep it that way.
He tied a knot around his ceiling fan, one he'd learned off Google and memorised sometime in the months following Abby's death.
A noose after that.
Guilt tore through him when he remembered his promise. That he'd be okay. He'd managed it for as long as humanly possible, he figured. Who could be expected to survive this? Maybe she could be proud of how long he'd clung on. That he managed to love one final time.
He climbed up onto the stool he'd taken from the living room—his desk chair had wheels, harder to kick—and stared at his feet. The matching socks he'd gotten for himself and Evan. His stomach bottomed out in fear, and he clenched his fists around nothing, nails barely biting into his palms since he'd bitten them raw. He'd never felt so rotten in his life. He'd failed everyone.
You stupid piece of shit. You're a coward.
Nate closed his eyes and brought the rope around his neck, tugging it taut until he knew the length was short enough to suspend him. His knees were shaking.
What the fuck is wrong with you? Is this not what you want?
"It is," he whispered to himself. His voice was a broken rasp from crying so much in the previous weeks. He was too exhausted now for tears. "I'm sorry. I'll see you both soon."
He wasn't sure who he was talking to. Evan and Abby couldn't hear him now.
Nate kicked the chair and jumped.
Dying was not peaceful. Dying felt like your heart spasming against your ribcage, fighting against the lack of oxygen slowly dimming your vision until your hands tore for purchase. Survival instincts.
Nate tried and failed to suck air into his lungs through the ligature tightening around his neck, as the pressure in his head grew more intense and his eyeballs felt like they were going to explode out of their sockets. His pulse rocketed in his ears. Time seemed to stretch on forever as his feet kicked and his ears rang. He knew it was starting to work when his vision darkened and he lost the energy to fight against it. The spasms stopped. His lungs went numb. It was almost peaceful.
Then the world toppled itself over.
A crash.
Pain lanced through his body, his entire being, as he slammed into the floor, muscles spasming and hands desperately tearing at the rope around his neck. His heart pounded. His head ached. His limbs seized. Breaths sawed in and out of his torn throat. Everything felt like static.
As his vision returned and his ears stopped ringing so much, he registered the pounding on the door and a fresh wave of horror washed over him. His head throbbed. His eyes stung with plaster dust.
He hated himself. He hated himself so fucking much.
Something wet and warm dripped over his forehead, weeping into his eye before he had the cognisance to wipe it away. His fingers came back red. Blood? What the fuck?
Nate shoved himself up with weak arms, still spasming as oxygen reinvigorated his muscles. He felt like a corpse being reanimated as he looked around, vision spinning like he'd gotten drunk. He supposed he had. The ceiling fan lay blurry on the floor next to him, a light snow of plaster dusting the room.
Fuck. His landlord would be so pissed.
"Nate?" A knock. "What's going on?"
He heaved.
"What is this? What are you doing?"
The breaths sawing in and out of his chest were painful, forced.
"Nate? Nate?! Please open the fucking door. I swear to god I'm going to kill you. Please just open the door. I love you, okay?!"
Georgie.
"Please listen to me. Don't do this to me. Nate, please," Her voice begged, but she sounded far away, like his head was underwater.
The pounding stopped as she spiralled into sobs.
"I'm sorry. Please open the door. I love you. You're my best friend. I need you. Help is coming. Please just open the door for me."
He wasn't sure he could get up if he tried. His arms gave out beneath him as the room continued to spin and a wave of dread and nausea and guilt rolled over him. He retched up the contents of his stomach next to a pool of blood. It burned all the way up; vodka, mostly. His eyes felt like they'd burst from the pressure.
"Nate, please. It's just me. Open the door. Please."
He stared at the hole in the ceiling as the room spun and he tried to process what had just happened.
He was supposed to be dead. He was supposed to be with his sister and Evan. His head pounded.
"I love you, okay? I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. You don't need to do this. Please open the door."
Fuck. He wasn't meant to be here for this. He wasn't meant to hear any of this. He'd scratched it blissfully from his mind. He closed his eyes in a futile attempt to make everything stop. Breathing was so painful. He wanted to stop.
Georgie's yells faded into oblivion. Time stopped.
He barely registered the sirens, the slams on the door and the crack of light that pierced through. His eyes stung. The desk budged one bang at a time until the room flooded with blurred faces and there were hands all over him. He was crying, he realised.
"Nate. Oh my god," a familiar voice sobbed, echoed. Every sound was grating against his eardrums. Too loud. Too much. "Why? Why would you do this?"
He didn't have the energy to explain. Barely had the energy to keep his eyes from fluttering shut as more faces circled above him.
"You're okay. You're okay. Please tell me you're okay."
Didn't have the energy to shake his head. Everything was spinning and looping so hard and fast he thought he'd throw up again. People kept touching. He used what little energy he had to shove them away.
"… name? …"
Words span around him. It was nauseating. He heaved without time to turn and it pooled in his mouth, coughing and spluttering.
"… turn him on his side! …"
He was shoved. The floor smacked against his face. He closed his eyes and let the vomit and tears and blood spill onto the carpet.
"… it's okay. It's okay, you're okay…"
It wasn't. It wasn't and he couldn't tell them. He clenched his eyes shut and prayed he was dreaming. His entire body was on fire and everything was spinning. His stomach convulsed again as he coughed.
"Nate, come on, please!"
"Ma'am, I need you to step back."
Even in his daze, he knew it was Georgie's sobs echoing through the room. He wanted to tell her he was sorry. He wanted to hold her and make her okay again.
Fuck. This was the worst possible scenario. His fingers tingled and in that moment he knew he wouldn't die. Fuck.
People hoisted him up by the shoulders and he was helpless to resist. He let them drag him onto what he assumed was a gurney, let them shove a mask over his face and shine obnoxiously bright lights in his eyes.
He had failed.
"Let me come! Please, let me come with—"
Doors slammed shut and the screams fizzled out. It would be peaceful if not for the wailing sirens piercing his ears.
"Can you squeeze my hand?"
He couldn't.
"Can you count to three?"
He couldn't.
"Can you tell me your name?"
The words barely formed on his tongue. "Nate, I think. My name is Nate."
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